Bad, Bad Blood
by Maya Beebop
Summary: During summer in New York City, the oppressive heat and forbidding high-rises make every street seem like a vein, pumping each pedestrian towards their ultimatum in the heart of the city that never sleeps.
1. All Colors And Heat

**Bad, Bad Blood**

Chapter I – All Colors and Heat

* * *

"Who the hell needs another vampire story?"

Faye threw her smoldering filter down to the cement floor, grinding it out with her boot heel and rolling her eyes. The bartender hardly glanced up at this – littering was as small a sin as smoking in this illegitimate bar. Music bounced off the concrete walls in an ever-mounting decibel rise, creating the telltale cacophony native only to dance clubs trying too hard to force their patrons to have a good time. A haze of tobacco and pot smoke wafted around the space with no draughts to dislodge it and a contact high was impossible to avoid. She inhaled deeply and waited for the placidity to set in.

Someone thought they could get an edge on the rave scene in New York by running a floating dance party and tonight's was in some abandoned warehouse basement. It was less a neon-paint all-night-rave and more of a place where the hipsters wanted to be in order to wear ironic tee shirts and be seen by people like Faye Donohue and her drinking buddy Julien Webster.

Julien wrote bestselling horror books and was a fervent bisexual fiend. Privately, Faye figured his being bisexual was just a pit-stop on his highway to gay, but she continued to be cordial when he insisted on flirting with her and sleeping with women he never seemed to have nice opinions of in the morning. Then again, that tended to be the inclination of many single straight men in New York City, so she reserved final judgment on him for the time being.

Unfortunately for his original career goals, Julien wrote just enough eroticism into his books that they were beloved by teenage girls and middle-aged women and therefore they were denounced by real book critics as only fitting for the young adult section. Despite his fervent arguments to the contrary, Julien was stuck in a rut and couldn't find a way out. However, he was just famous enough to be invited as a small celebrity to domestic conventions and welcomed as a guest on some of the lesser morning talk shows. He continued to churn out novels to the delight of his publisher and languish in the stagnant pool of writer's block and top-shelf vodka.

Faye had resigned herself long ago to being Julien's wing-woman. Help him out with story ideas, fix major plot holes, and he would routinely thank her in the epigraph and occasionally buy her another bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. They'd met in college and bonded over a mutual disdain for the status quo. That's why Julien was a bestselling author, and Faye managed a dusty old bookstore in the Village. Most of her extra spending money came from selling Julien's autographed copies for him.

"Seriously, Webster. The market's up to here with shitty vampire stories." She pulled out another cigarette and struck a match with her gesturing hand. "They all have the same plot – handsome mysterious vampire moves in next door, naïve teenage girl or mid-twenties woman falls in love with him, some run-of-the-mill S&M-inspired sex scenes ensue and she either has to kill him or turn into a vampire. I literally just described ninety percent of vampire literature out there."

Julien scoffed. "You think you know so much just because those Twilight books spawned a bunch of copycats and that's all that's been new so far."

"Incorrect, sir. The last ten percent is Anne Rice wannabes blathering about how tortured and lonesome they all are. It's bullshit, Julien. You're better than vampires. What new take are you going to do that will have your readers thinking you're better than the rest of the supernatural smut out there?"

He spun his dry martini slowly and frowned down at it. "I was thinking some kind of big Shyamalan twist. Like it was the girl who was the vampire the whole time."

"Way to write the ending before you write the story, rookie."

She tensed and bent over, fighting the mounting need to cough. Losing the battle, she turned around and hacked into the crook of her arm. It wasn't a dry cough – it hadn't been for a couple days now.

Julien leaned over and touched her hand. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She turned back around and hastily wiped her mouth with a handkerchief she'd stuffed in her purse. "Just the weather getting colder. No problem."

He frowned again. "If you say so. But seriously Faye, I haven't done vampires yet. I check the forums – it seems like around sixty percent of my fan base wants to read one from me. I can't keep writing werewolves and ghosts forever. Eventually, every author in the genre gets around to vampires."

"Then do it and don't blame me when you realize there's no original storylines left. You can't even be meta and write about a writer studying vampires who meets one, because Anne Rice already beat you to it before it was cool." She sipped her Manhattan and took another drag.

The room was filling up, which was surprising. The party hadn't been that well advertised and it was a Wednesday night. Nothing cool had even happened yet to make people text all their friends to show up. Perhaps it was the out-of-the-ordinary presence of a makeshift bar that spurred the city's underage to show up in droves, or perhaps word had gotten out that the famous Drake Jackson – aka Julien Drake Webster – was in attendance. Either way, the crowd that began to push in from all sides ran the range from late teens to mid-thirties. A person could almost smell the statutory rape lawsuits waiting to happen.

"Why were you so keen on coming here tonight anyway?" Faye asked loudly over the steady thump of the music.

He grinned maliciously. "It happens to be the kickoff to the Halloween party season in New York City underground society. I brought you this in honor of the affair." He placed a rumpled mass of shiny black fabric on the table. "Happy Halloween two-thousand-nine, sugarpie."

She picked it up delicately and let it fall out, revealing that it was a nicely embroidered black and merlot-red cape that fell to the hips. Rolling her eyes, she pulled it on over her clothes and noticed the front flared obscenely and intentionally around her breasts.

"You sleaze."

"You're welcome. I thought maybe after wearing this you'd be more responsive to my vampire book idea. I myself am going to demonstrate how worn out werewolves are." He put a furry brown headband on that had big dog ears attached and popped in a pair of fitted ragged canines. "By the end of the night, I want an original storyline from each of us. Deal? Deal. Be back in a minute." With that, he disappeared to get them fresh drinks.

She sneered at his receding form and turned in her chair to watch the crowd seethe. Julien was right about it being a Halloween party; she was starting to notice less hipsters and more people in makeshift costumes. Thankfully it wasn't too slutty a crowd and there were more clever outfits than there were outright attempts at showing off skin. Must be the demographic, she thought. Any person in their right mind looking for a Halloween party would be at one of the expensive dance clubs where showing up in anything more than lingerie was grounds for being kicked out. A sane person would not choose to be half-freezing in an unfinished warehouse basement. She smirked at her own thought.

By midnight there were still a few people in attendance that either didn't get the memo or didn't care about the holiday dress code. Julien was taking his time getting back with the drinks; odds were he'd been recognized and accosted at the bar. She was used to it and continued to nurse the last of her drink as she people-watched. Her private little game was to count and watch the people who were clearly too old to be there – people past the age of about thirty-five who were trying desperately to hold onto their guilt-free youth. At a party like this, it was easy to spot them because they hadn't come prepared to dress up.

She'd been so entertained by this one poor guy who looked like he was about forty, half-balding, paunch being held back by what had to be the hardest-working vest in the contiguous United States, when she caught a guy staring in her direction from across the room. He wasn't looking specifically at her – at least, she thought and hoped he wasn't – but it was enough to make her uncomfortable. He was either Italian or black Irish and he was wearing just a black tee-shirt and jeans. Adding to the slowly mounting feeling of creepiness was that he didn't seem to blink.

"Who are you staring at? I demand to know." Julien slid back onto his seat in front of her, grinning and directly blocking her view of the guy. He spun his head around and scanned the crowd. "Please tell me not the guy dressed as Sexy Colonel KFC. That's his real moustache, and it's gross."

She smiled and took her drink. "No, I was playing Count The Fogies. Got all the way up to eleven this time."

"A new record. Let us toast the occasion." They clinked glasses and sipped.

They continued to chat for awhile, dutifully ignoring the pack of girls gyrating like pole dancers trying to get Julien's attention. Handsome men were at a premium tonight, and his combination of sleek musculature, olive skin and pale blue eyes made Julien one of the prime targets for girls seeking someone to make poor decisions with. He shot them an occasional smile but made no move to join them. Faye was used to his getting this kind of attention and though she fully expected him to eventually ditch her, she appreciated his sticking around for a bit.

"Thanks for hanging," she said, spinning her glass. "When you want to go make some more fans, I'm going to head out."

"Why would you leave? It's a good night to stick around. They say celebrities show up to these things," he laughed. "No, seriously, you can't leave until we come up with a good plot for me. And why would you want to?"

"I'm just getting the wiggins from some guys here. I don't want to stick around alone."

"Who? Who's creeping on you?" He looked around, eyebrows furrowed, looking for the culprit. "I can get him thrown out. Where is he?"

She took his arm and pulled him to face her. "It's not a big deal. I don't think any of them are even looking at me. There's just one guy; he makes me nervous. He looks like one of those guys who comes to clubs to find girls and you see on the news the next morning that he's a serial killer." She chuckled nervously.

"Oh, just that? That's half the good-looking guys in New York, babydoll. The Handsome Serial Killers Union offered me membership just last week, in fact." He laughed and nearly fell off his stool. "Woof, I'm a little further along than I thought. I'm about at the point where I should start looking for a dance partner. Still no interest?"

She frowned down at her drink. "You wouldn't want me as a dance partner, we've been over this. I'd look ridiculous."

He stood and walked around to rub her shoulders reassuringly. "You've got to get over this self-image thing. No one can tell. Nobody would care."

"No, thank you. You go on, I'm going to go catch the subway. Thanks for a fun night. I'll call you if I get any good ideas."

"As you wish." He kissed her cheek and held his arm out for her to lean on as she stood up. She winced and waited for him to wave goodbye and meld into the crowd before she moved to go, draping her coat over her left leg in order to better mask the outline of the metal brace under her jeans.


	2. Rain Falling In Sheets

**Bad, Bad Blood**

Chapter II – Rain Falling In Sheets

* * *

The platform for the 6 train headed downtown was fairly populated for the late hour. At three days before Halloween, Faye wasn't surprised – there would be parties going on all over the city, especially in the Village where she was headed. Her apartment was located upstairs and next door to one of the better bars in the neighborhood and she openly sighed as she realized she may not get much sleep that night due to the din of partygoers below.

"Long night?"

She jumped as she realized the voice came from right next to her. She glanced over and saw an older woman standing beside her, smiling gently.

"I'm sorry for scaring you, dear. If you don't mind me standing here, it's safer for both of us to look like we're here with someone else. Can't be too careful on holiday week nights."

"That's true." Faye's lips curled down a bit. The woman had a point, although people didn't normally just casually chat with each other on the subway. Even though she was older, she was no less likely a pickpocket than anyone else.

The woman didn't say anything else; she just continued to stand three feet away and watch for the imminent train. Faye reset her shoulders and absentmindedly rubbed her hip where the brace sat chilly against her skin. Her body was getting used to it; the initial bruises from its introduction were fading. She was daydreaming about what she'd do first as soon as it was off when she realized the train had arrived. Pushing on, she glanced down the platform and did a double take. She could have sworn the creepy guy from the bar had gotten on the train a few cars down.

Seeing nothing, she shrugged it off as paranoia. Ever since she was told she couldn't move faster than a brisk walk, her mind was always alert to danger situations. She had changed her usual routes around the city so that she would always be in populated places and would only travel during high-volume times. It wouldn't do to be somewhere she couldn't run away from. She resented her impotence so much that she had invested in a bottle of pepper spray to keep in her purse and had finally purchased a shotgun with her firearms ID to keep in the apartment.

The ride down went without incident and with little difficulty she climbed out of the station onto the street. It was only a block or two to her place, but the roads were bare and rain was starting to spit. Faye cursed herself for being so scared of her own neighborhood after living there for three years, but she palmed her pepper spray and walked forward as single-mindedly as she could, determined to look like she would be a mistake to fool with. A couple hoodlums eyed her from stoops and alleys as she made her way, but there were thankfully no cat-calls or gangs hanging out on the sidewalks to hinder her progress.

The bar beneath her place was full that night, and though she sighed again at the noise level, her nervousness faded in the warm glow from its windows and the sounds of a crowd. She took her keys out and started fitting them to the lock, hoping to beat the imminent deluge inside. Thunder rolled across the sky and it began to rain steadily.

"Faye! Oh my gosh, Faye!"

The high-pitched shriek ground on her nerves and she cursed the world. Turning with a forced smile, she greeted her old high-school classmate, Katie Jones. Katie was fresh to the city and had moved into her neighborhood with dreams of becoming an actress. Faye only knew this because she had been almost assaulted by Katie one afternoon when the girl had rushed-hugged her in the market and prattled off her long life story since graduation. The girl was a good-natured chatterbox, fully-funded by daddy to have her big adventure in the city and about a dumb as a post when it came to self-preservation. The girl would tell strangers anything. There was being friendly, and then there was being stupid. Knowing only a few people, she was constantly calling Faye to come out with her.

Katie bounded up and grinned a mile wide. "I'm so glad I ran into you! I was just next door and thinking how much you'd love it. We could-…" She saw the keys in Faye's hand. "Oh my gosh, do you live here? Right next to the bar? You're so lucky! And it's so convenient! Come over and have a drink with us. Please?"

Faye stared and wondered how a twenty-six year old who went to the same schools as her all their lives could still bounce around and talk like a fourteen-year-old. Then she remembered Katie's family was extremely well-off, and Faye's was fractured at best.

"That sounds really good, but-…" She was going to say that she was tired, that she had just come from a wild bar, that she was doing something, anything, early tomorrow morning, but Katie had only heard the yes she was looking for and took her hand to lead the way. They were through the front door and sitting down before Faye could get words out. The bar was one of those legitimate European pubs that kept their furniture wooden and sturdy and kept their bar clean and stocked with basic British staples and the house brew. Fights broke out from time to time but the crew would be lucky to reach it before the patrons had already thrown the offenders out themselves. This was where the locals came and with their blessing allowed newcomers a place at the bar provided they showed some respect.

She struggled to find a good, polite excuse when an excellent one drifted into her line of sight. The creepy guy from the party was here, sipping a dark beer at the end of the bar.

"I can't, Katie. It's not a good night. See, there's this guy-…"

She was already barreling through introductions and Faye realized there were three other men at the table. Katie had always been good at roping in new guys. "So this is Robbie, and Evan, and Steve. They're in town from California. Robbie's a firefighter paramedic, right? The other two work for some investment firm."

She shook their hands in greeting and tried to decline the waiter when he came by to take the next round's order, but the guys insisted and ordered her the house beer along with theirs. Since Katie had trapped her in the seat next to the wall and she couldn't easily slink out and they were all already asking her about life in the city, twenty minutes had gone by before she realized that her beer was half-gone and she was actually having a good time. Playing off Katie and going on about how great the east coast was compared to the west while simultaneously picking up and returning flirtation cues, an hour and two more rounds went by.

Now with no intention of leaving early, she got up to visit the ladies room. As she edged down the crowded bar towards the back, she caught sight of the guy, leaning against a wall and flirting with a woman. They looked like they had been talking for awhile. As she passed by, he glanced over and caught her staring at him. She sucked in a breath and looked away, but not before noticing he'd smirked at her before turning back to his lady friend.

The spot on the back of her neck burned all the way there, exactly where she imagined eyes staring at her.

When she returned from the bathroom, she was relieved to see the guy and the woman were no longer inside. At the table, seating placement had changed – Katie had moved to sit between Evan and Steve, she couldn't remember which was which, and Robbie had taken Katie's old seat. He stood to allow her into her spot and she edged in gingerly, wondering if he expected her to fawn on him the way Katie was hanging all over the investment twins. Faye was drunk, but not that drunk, and she watched with the slightest twinge of envy as Katie sat as cool as Scarlett O'Hara, keeping both boys focused on her as she flirted shamelessly with the both of them.

"So you live nearby?" Robbie smiled once she'd taken a sip of her beer. She nearly choked on it.

"Who told you that and why would you bring it up?" It wouldn't do to have some random group of guys knowing where she lived. She cursed Katie for clearly running her mouth while she had been in the bathroom.

He looked playful. "No one told me, except you just now. It's a clever ruse. How close? The bar's going to close soon. My buddies and I would be glad to buy more drinks if you girls are willing to host the after-party."

Katie heard the tail end of this and her face lit up like Christmas. "Oh my gosh, yeah, that sounds like so much fun! Faye lives like, right next door. This place has package goods, right? Faye! After-party!" She reached across the tables and grabbed Faye's hand, nodding.

Faye's eyebrows furrowed and she bit her lip. "I don't know. Um, the place is a mess. It's not really big enough for this many. I don't think so."

The bartenders shouted over the din for last call. The guys went up to buy one more round and Katie leaned over the table. "So? Am I good or am I good? He's really into you. If you don't want to have everybody over, no big deal. But I bet your place is big enough for two." She winked obscenely. People on the Brooklyn Bridge could have picked up on it.

"No, really, thanks anyway, but-…"

The guys came back, but before Robbie could sit down again Faye edged out and reached for her coat. She winced as her hip knocked his and she felt the metal push against her skin. He'd probably felt that. From the slightly confused look on his face, she guessed he had. "I'm gonna actually go to bed. Gotta be up early tomorrow. You guys all have a fun night, thanks for having me."

She pushed out of the bar while the guys and Katie called after her and she stumbled onto the street, avoiding the droves of drunken revelers as best she could. Deep breaths of the slightly ripe city air brought sobriety closer and she sighed deep as she reached for her keys. Katie was a grown woman and she knew what was best for her, Faye decided. If she wanted to flirt with strangers, fine, but Faye wasn't about to invite just anyone right into her home. That's how people became Law & Order episodes.

She had barely opened the door when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Spinning around and expecting to see some violent drunkard or mugger, she clutched tight on her purse and focused in on Robbie. Exhaling, she smiled slightly. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to. You live this close, huh? I figured a subway stop or two away."

"No, no, this is me. I had a fun time, but I need to get to bed, really. You should head back to the bar. Katie would be much more fun than me."

He grinned. "Need to get to bed, huh? But that's so lame. We're out here for a good time and out of the first girls we meet, half of them want to abandon us. Very bad hospitality you have here in New York."

She shrugged. "Sorry. I'm sure you'll find more hospitable girls."

The sentence was barely out of her mouth before he pulled her face to his and kissed her, deep and drunk, as if he could convince her otherwise. It having been awhile since she was last wooed, she let herself fall into it for only a moment before pushing away. "No, thanks. Not tonight."

"Tonight," he smiled again, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her in again. "Live a little, Faye. I promise you won't regret it. "

She felt her eyes narrow and the alcohol turn from sweet to sour in her veins. Suddenly this wasn't funny or cute. "Get off me, Robbie. I'm saying no."

"That's not what you were saying between the lines in the bar back there. We've been flirting for hours. Come on, babe, let's have some fun." He released his hold on her waist long enough to turn her around and start to push her up the stairs.

She writhed in his grip, damning herself for not palming the pepper spray when she had the chance. "No, you asshole! Get off of me and get out of my building! Let go!" He was stronger than she was – most men were – and she couldn't do much to stop his advance. So she did the best thing anyone could do to prevent rape in New York City – she screamed.

"Fire! Fire!" she yelled at the top of her voice. It was a sad truth that if you yelled "rape", not many people would come running to tango with some thug with a switchblade or a gun. You yell "fire" and people respond damn quick. You can at least count on a couple 911 calls.

No one yelled back though. It must've been too loud outside the bar. As she struggled against his grip, even trying to go dead weight in his arms, she realized she was in deep shit. She wasn't too heavy for him to throw over his shoulder, which he did with a laugh because through the haze of alcohol he still thought it was all a joke. Her eyes started to eke hot tears of desperation as she realized that even though she could refuse to key him into her apartment, he'd still be strong enough to mess her up in the hallway.

Hanging over his shoulder and trying to prop herself up off his back, she saw at the foot of the stairs standing right outside the doorway a male figure obviously looking up at them. It had to have been one of his buddies from the bar, Evan or Steve. Praying that they weren't all drunken monsters, she screamed down to him.

"Help me!" He continued to stand there, hands braced on the outside of the building but clearly staring up at them. The rage built within her chest as Robbie almost lost balance and bounced them off the wall. Elbowing him deep in the shoulder blades, Faye screamed down to the guy again. "Jesus Christ, get the fuck in here and help me!"

Robbie buckled under the sharp blow and collapsed under her. She felt herself slip off and start to topple over the banister. Grabbing it, she was able to effectively balance herself on it and missed the part where the guy from outside made it up the stairs in what seemed to be a blink of an eye. Everything was moving at light speed, really, and yet while clutching the rail-thin wrought iron she saw the guy pick Robbie up by his shirt and literally throw him down the stairs. It was some Patrick Swayze _Roadhouse_ move and it would have been more impressive if it hadn't been so brutal. Whoever the guy was, he had to be benching high digits because Robbie didn't crumble like a house of cards, but instead caught plenty of air and took it hard to the forearms and shoulders and lay there moaning in agony. He hadn't even had time to put up a fight – one toss and he was out for the count.

Faye was actually too paralyzed to let go of the handrail, afraid that if she moved her balance would be thrown and she would fall the half-story to the cracked linoleum below. In the dim stairwell light, her savior approached slowly and held out his hand for her to take in her own time. Slowly she unclenched a palm from the metal and reached for his, and once her grip was comparable to a woman's in the throes of childbirth she eased her unburdened leg down to the steps. Finally she brought her other leg down and leaned against the banister to keep herself from collapsing.

"Thank you," she breathed. She would not cry. Not in front of this stranger. Crying would come later, along with a new handgun and a LifeAlert necklace. She looked everywhere but at his face.

Below, she heard male voices expressing concern, and she glanced down to see two guys picking Robbie up and taking him back out into the street, thinking he'd just suffered a bad fall. Recognizing both Evan and Steve below, she finally looked up at her rescuer and felt a fresh jolt of adrenaline bolt through her. God didn't play dice with the universe every night; tonight's game of choice was clearly Russian Roulette. It was the guy from the party and the pub.

"You're welcome," he smiled, extending his hand again. "I'm Jerry."


	3. What Do You Need

**Bad, Bad Blood**

Chapter III – What Do You Need

* * *

His hand grasped hers as he goaded her off the banister. She bit the inside of her lip and steadied herself from trembling – not from being skittish around him, but from the insane levels of adrenaline pumping through her from being almost carried off like a Sabine. His grip was surprisingly gentle for a guy who'd just tossed another man like an under-stuffed ragdoll. She took a deep breath to calm down and let go of him.

Meeting his gaze, she felt the involuntary shudder run up her spine. He didn't exactly stare so much as just have some seriously black eyes that dug in and stayed there. The thunderstorm had broken while he was outside and rain had plastered his black shirt to his skin and ran in rivulets from his hairline to his eyebrows. Her palm was damp from where he'd grasped it and she flexed her grip to dry it.

"I really appreciate it-…" she started, then caught herself. What the hell did a person say in a situation like this that wasn't the cliché heard in every movie? He chuckled at her hesitation and nodded to acknowledge it. Hooking his thumbs into his jean pockets, he gestured upstairs.

"Let me make sure you get inside safe and call the cops. Or don't, but I'll feel better if you do."

She nodded back, at a loss for what to do and glad to have a suggestion to go on. She held tight to the handrail as they ascended the stairs slowly. The bash she'd taken from when Robbie had fallen into the wall had landed right on her hip and she was limping worse than usual. Jerry was politely hanging back behind her, letting her lead, not rushing her. Once she'd reached her door, she turned to him and set her jaw, trying to feign that the shock that hadn't already set in.

"If you mess with me right now, you will still go straight to hell."

He gave another half-chuckle and raised his hands in defense. "I swear to you I won't. Can I come in and call the police for you?" Seeing her hesitance, he hurried to follow up. "It's actually more for me – I want a report that I was defending you when those guys come after me with a lawsuit."

Faye took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to be suspicious of everyone for the rest of her life, and this guy had just saved her. If anyone deserved the benefit of the doubt, he did. "Yeah, come on in."

Her apartment wasn't much more than a glorified college suite. A kitchen-slash-sitting room, a bedroom with a bathroom adjacent and chili-pepper string lights framing the two windows with a sink half-full of dirty dishes was where she called home. She gestured for him to stay on the small rug inside the door and went looking for a clean towel.

The cape Julien had made her wear was still attached and, she realized, had wrapped itself pretty tightly around her neck. No wonder she'd been feeling light-headed, it had probably been blocking blood flow since Robbie had thrown her over his shoulder. She pulled the knot and unwound it. The mirror showed a bright red divot line running around her entire neck, like her throat had been slit or she'd been hung with a really thin noose. Shuddering with too many ominous images in one night, she went about the business of finding the towel.

As she dug through her linen drawer she listened for sounds of his movement. No footsteps, no heavy breathing. He wasn't even slightly winded from taking Robbie out, which puzzled her, but she was content that he wasn't moving from his spot on the rug. Finding a towel, she came back out and tossed it to him.

"Phone's on the wall. I'm making tea. I feel like I'm made out of wound bedsprings." She began to fill a kettle as he ran the towel over his hair. From the corner of her eye she saw him give up on drying the shirt with it and pull it over his head to wring it out on the rug. Eyes widening, she turned her back and busied herself washing two mugs. Guy had abs for days.

When she turned back around with full mugs his shirt was on again, albeit wrinkled and only marginally dryer in that it was no longer actually dripping. She put his coffee down on the table runner and sat on the beat-up couch with hers cradled carefully in her hands to avoid the burn but enjoy the warmth. He glanced at her and she noticed his eyes were fixed below her chin. "Your neck…" he ventured.

"It's fine. It's from that stupid costume cape. It'll go away." Her pause afterward turned into an uncomfortable silence as they looked at each other, neither seeming to know what to say. She glared up from her seat, now better steeled against her fears with hot tea in hand and her rifle safely and conveniently hidden in the bedroom closet. "You were at the rave bar tonight," she stated, still on her adrenaline high and having no patience to beat around it. "And my train downtown. And the pub. What gives?"

He chuckled softly and padded over to take his mug and sit down in the armchair beside the couch. He sat forward so as not to dampen the furniture too much, but she got the impression of a big jungle cat perching for the kill. It unnerved her, but she attributed it to reading too much Kipling that week in the shop. "I'm a columnist," he explained, "I follow the night scene in town. I take my leads from other people and follow them."

"You're joking."

"No. I followed someone else to that party. I was going to stick with them but you were sitting with that writer. I figured you had to be pretty interesting to keep him talking. It looked like you had somewhere better to be, so I followed you downtown and discovered the bar. I get a good column maybe one out of every five nights I do this."

She pulled a face. "That's pretty creepy, Perry."

"Jerry."

"Right, sorry. You gave me the creeps all night. I thought you were stalking me."

He smiled. He smiled an awful lot for a grown man, she mused to herself, and it never looked entirely happy. In fact, it looked almost condescending every time, like he was playing a game. "I guess we're both pretty lucky I ended up following you tonight."

Her indignant anger faded and she took a sip of her tea. "Yes. Thank you again."

He gave another look around the apartment, almost like he was waiting for her to say something else or even that he was casing the place. It made her nervous suddenly. Everything he did was slightly off, like he was anxious or trying too hard to stay in his own skin. Maybe she was being over-perceptive. Probably it was just the shock telling her brain she was waiting for the other shoe to drop and he'd end up being some vicious psychopathic murderer because that's the way life is. Then she told herself it was ridiculous.

When she didn't say anything else, his gaze came back to hers and he smiled as if taking a hint. "Well, maybe I should get out of your hair." As he stood, he was still staring at her neck. Feeling self-conscious, she got up too in order to walk him to the door. The uncomfortable, uneasy silence filled the room again – Faye thought she could actually hear the dust motes drifting as she did her best to avoid his again creepily unblinking eyes.

"Thank you again," she muttered as she opened the door for him.

A beat. He didn't move to go. "There's a lot of bad people out there. Can't let just anyone know where you live, especially with that leg of yours."

This was so obvious and inappropriate to say that she looked up and met his gaze. Her instincts were telling her that this was wrong, so very wrong. That spot beneath her stomach was twisted up and she was getting the fight-or-flight response, the same kind she got with Robbie right before he pushed her into the building. Robbie would have been easy to deal with – she could have calmed down and played along until they were in the bedroom and then pressed the shotgun to his back as she called the cops. This Jerry, on the other hand, had not been drinking. He had followed her all night and ended up alone with her in her apartment and was stalling leaving. He was staring at her like he was waiting for her to make a move.

She stepped away gently and rallied her nerves. "You know, let me get a pen and write down my information for when you call the police." The goal was the bedroom closet. One round was loaded already – unsafe technically but with no one else living there the risk of accident was smaller. And really, just the sound of a shotgun click was one of the best deterrents.

He turned away from the exit, his fingers brushing the door so it swung closer to closed and the corner of his lip twitching up into a half-smirk. "You're scared." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

The apartment was small. She had reached the bedroom and kicked the door closed while groping into the closet. Her clothes had shifted some in daily use and she had to push aside bulky sweaters to feel the cool long barrel. Just as she was pulling it free, the door flung open and he was on her, strong, stronger than a normal man had any right to be. He pinned her, using the gun against her chest to hold her to the wall. Something in his face changed in the light and she attempted to scream as he clamped one hand down over her mouth and bit into her neck.

Through her panicked muffled screams all she thought was every curse word ever written. Within seconds it was over and he pulled away, letting her crumple to the floor as he wiped his chin, her blood streaking down his face. She raised a hand to her neck, felt the ragged flesh, then remembered she had a loaded gun in her hands. Turning it up quick, she pulled off a round before he could move and watched it go wide – very wide, how did he move so fast? – blowing a crater straight through her window and into the brick wall of the abandoned factory the next lot over.

She heard him howl and caught a glimpse of him clutching a wounded arm. At point-blank range, even being far away from the direct line of fire he still had a chunk taken out of him and burned through his skin. The last thing she saw were his eyes looking yellow in the moonlight and his long teeth bared in pain as he withdrew. Once she heard the apartment door swing wide and the telltale clunk of the building's front doors slam shut, she knew he was gone.


End file.
